Living in the Hope Place

Yesterday afternoon, I was standing in the garden, hose in one hand, wondering if I had remembered to water the garden recently.

The answer, according to my wife, was no.

She’s usually the one who reminds me that if I don’t get out there soon, all those tomato plants I’m so proud of are going to die. And the beans and the cucumbers and the watermelons.

She’s right, of course.

So I watered the garden.

As the leaves got wet, that familiar smell drifted up. If you’ve ever grown tomatoes, you know it. Every summer I forget about it until the first time I catch it again. Then I wonder how I could possibly have forgotten.

It’s funny where my mind goes when I’m outside.

Sometimes it’s while I’m watering the garden. Sometimes it’s walking the dogs.

The rhythm of their feet on the sidewalk. Watching them stop to sniff the same patch of grass they’ve investigated a hundred times before. Saying hello to neighbours. Meeting someone new who has just moved onto the street. Catching up with someone I haven’t seen in a while.

Those are the moments when I write. Not on paper. Just in my head.

A sentence will wander in. Then another thought follows it. Before I know it, I’m halfway through a story that probably won’t make it onto the page because by the time I get back inside, something else needs my attention.

That’s been true for much of the past year.

I haven’t stopped wanting to write. Life has simply needed me somewhere else.

If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know a little about our renovation. You probably also know it turned into something much bigger than a renovation. There is a lawsuit now, and like most legal processes, it moves slowly while taking up an astonishing amount of space in your mind.

At the same time, life has kept moving. School was busy. Our family has been finding its way through new seasons.

But the garden doesn’t care about court dates. The dogs still want their walks. Friends still come over. Kids are still growing up.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. How life never waits until everything is settled before asking us to notice something beautiful.

A few days ago, our daughter got her G1.

Afterwards, I put together a little video.

One clip shows her, at three years old, sitting in the driver’s seat of our car with the biggest smile on her face. It was our first vacation together and she had proudly stated that she was going to drive us home.

Another shows her riding her bike down our street without training wheels for the first time. Her friends are running alongside her, cheering her on. She is joyfully screaming “Woo Hoo!”

Then comes the video we took this week. Same street. This time she’s driving the car. My wife is in the passenger seat. I’m standing on the side of the road trying to hold the camera steady while also taking in the fact that this little girl is suddenly old enough to drive.

I’ve watched that video more times than I’d like to admit. Partly because I’m proud of her. Mostly because I don’t ever want to forget it.

When our kids joined our family, she was three years old. We weren’t there for her first steps or her first words. We missed those firsts.

But we’ve had the privilege of so many others.

Her first day of school. Her first vacation. Her first time riding a bike without training wheels. Her first drive.

One day, driving will be completely ordinary. That’s exactly why this week isn’t.

The older I get, the less interested I am in waiting for the big moments. Life is mostly made up of ordinary Tuesdays. Watering tomatoes. Walking dogs. Painting a dresser. Hosting friends for burgers while the kitchen is still unfinished. Standing on the side of the road watching your daughter drive away for the very first time.

None of those moments erase the difficult ones.

The renovation is still unfinished. The lawsuit is still working its way through the courts. There are still people I love who are carrying burdens I wish I could carry for them.

Those things are real.

But so are the tomatoes. So is the laughter around our table. So is the excitement of planning a trip at Christmas. So are the conversations my wife and I have been having about retirement, spending time abroad, writing, podcasting, and building The Shared Table.

For years, The Shared Table lived mostly in my imagination. Now it lives in our home. We’re inviting people over. We’re talking less about what it could be and spending more time simply doing it.

That feels different.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been noticing this summer.

Not that life has become easier. It hasn’t. I’ve just started dreaming again.

For a long time I wrote because I was looking for hope. I think I still am. Only now I understand that hope isn’t pretending everything is okay.

Hope is planting tomatoes while a lawsuit drags on. Hope is planning a trip before all the answers arrive. Hope is believing there are still good conversations to have around a table. Hope is paying attention.

I think that’s why I’m finding my way back here. Not because I have something figured out. Because paying attention has always helped me make sense of the world.

If you’ve been reading here for years, thank you for staying.

If this is your first visit, welcome.

My hope is that whenever you stop by, you’ll find a place where you can catch your breath. A place where there’s room for both grief and celebration.

A place that reminds you to notice your own ordinary moments before they quietly become memories.

I’m glad you’re here.